Famous
by Frannie1
Summary: Race is in love with Medda. That's really all there is to it. Incomplete
1. Chapter 1

Racetrack Higgins had sold all his papers. It was dusk and Irving Hall was it up brightly. He sighed mournfully. He couldn't afford to see a show, but god, how he wanted to see her. Those shiny red ringlets, those beautiful diamond-like eyes, those red lips. Only once had he been close enough to smell her sweet perfume. Sure, she was at least thirty, but she still had all the life of an eighteen-year-old.

He wiped the sweat off of his brow as he rounded a corner of the building. Summers were disgusting in New York. It felt like rain even when there wasn't a cloud in sight. He felt the sweat collecting in the fabric of his sleeves. "Ya try to look good," he muttered angrily to himself.

He heard a door shut and looked up. He stopped. It was her. It was Medda Larkson. He licked his lips and started walking again.

As he neared her, she took one last drag on her cigarette and put it out, stamping it with her lavender boot. She watched as he went by.

"Miss," he said, tipping his hat.

"Wait a minute," she said suddenly.

He felt his face flush and he turned around, removing his hat entirely.

"Do I know you?" She had no accent like the Swedish one she used in her show. She smiled. "Wait, are you one of those newsies?" She remembered! "You came to the rally?" He nodded, afraid to speak. "What's the matter?" She frowned. "Cat got your tongue?"  
"No, ma'am." She laughed. "We've met before. It's Racetrack, remember?"

"Oh, yes!" She touched his shoulder lightly and he flinched. "Now I remember! You know how it is, I meet so _many _men."

What was _that _supposed to mean? he thought.

"Well, I've got to get back." She opened the door and turned around. "Come by some time, Race." She smiled at him and went inside.

He had practically fallen over when he noticed her cigarette on the ground. Making sure it was put out, he slipped it into his pocket and made his way back to the lodging house. He took off his jacket and sat down on his bed, carefully placing the cigarette on the bedside table.

"What's that?" someone said, coming up beside him. "Got an extra smoke, Race?" He reached for the cigarette.

Race slapped his hand away. "Blink, get off it! This ain't for smokin', awright?"

Blink ran a hand through his blonde hair, confused. "Then what's it for, huh?" Race didn't answer and Blink hit him upside the head. "C'mon!"

"Hey!" Race jumped to his feet. "Whatsa matter with you?"

"What? I'm low—I need a smoke."

"You don't need nothin'," Race said, taking a seat.

Blink sat down across from him. "C'mon, what's it for?"

Race sighed, rolling his eyes. He glanced around shiftily. "All right, it's Medda's."

"What?" Blink asked, bemused.

"Medda Larkson dropped it on the ground and I picked it up," Race elaborated with difficulty.

"You did _what_?" Blink laughed. "Geez, Race, I knew you were sick, but I didn't know you were _that _sick."

"I ain't sick!" Race shook his head. "I wouldn't expect you t'understand."

"You know me, huh, I ain't that smart," Blink retorted sarcastically. They were silent a moment. "Looks like you like her a lot, huh?"  
"Her lipstick's still on it," Race said, observing the cigarette.

"So'd you talk to her?" Blink asked, trying to get his friend's attention back.

"Sure."

"And?" Blink prompted.

"And what?"

Blink looked exasperated. "What'd she say?"

Race smiled, amused. "Well, aren't we eager." Blink tapped his foot impatiently. "She said I should come see a show."

Blink deflated. "That's it?"

"You're the one who wanted to know," he said without sympathy.

Suddenly Blink stood up. "What time is it?"

"Six-thirty. Why?" Blink grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. "Hey, what's the big idea?"

"We're going," Blink said simply.

Race shook his head. "Oh, no. No, no, no—we ain't goin' nowhere."

"You wanna see her, don't you?" Race shrugged. "So, c'mon!" He dragged his friend all the way to Irving Hall, though at some point Race decided he'd better walk on his own.

They walked in through the front doors and started into the theatre when a large burly man stopped them. "Hold up, boys—you gotta pay to see the show."

Race looked up at him and said boldly, "Listen, pal, Miss Larkson _asked _me to come."

"Yeah?" The man crossed his arms, displaying some very large muscles. "And what's your name?"

"Racetrack Higgins," he said proudly.

The man thought a moment, and then narrowed his eyes. "I guess she did mention you." He turned to Blink. "Now, who're you?"

"A friend," Blink replied confidently.

"Now, let us in, huh?" Race said, pushing his way through.

"Sorry, boys." The man stepped in front of them. "After the show's started, no one goes in."

Race looked at his friend. "So, what do we do now, huh, Blink?"

"Wait till she comes out?" Blink suggested.

So they did, or rather, Race did. Blink left—the show ended up being quite long. Race sat on the back steps, knowing she would eventually come down them. And she finally did at about eleven-thirty.

"Excuse me?" she said roughly. She tapped his shoulder. "Kid, you can't sleep here."

Race was suddenly jarred out of his slumber. He looked up and found himself staring up at an angel. "Medda," he murmured. He came to his sense, jumping to his feet and removing his hat. "G'night, Miss." He gently took her hand and kissed it.

"Oh, Racetrack," she said, smiling.

"I waited for you," he said.

"Couldn't you get in?" she questioned, confused.

"Uh, nope, full house," he lied. He would _not _let on that he was dirt poor. "You've got a lot of admirers, Miss."

"Oh, Race, call me Medda! Friends don't use those formalities."

"Right," he said nervously. He was sweating again. His palms were hot. "Erm…since we're out here, could I walk you home?"

She smiled. "That would be lovely." They were quiet for a while until she said, "So, what's your name?"  
He was a little confused. "Race, you know that."

She giggled. "No, I mean your _real _name."

Race smiled crookedly. "What? Racetrack Higgins, that's my _real _name!"

Medda narrowed her eyes. "I find it hard to believe your mother named you Racetrack."

"Well, I never knew my mother, so it don't make much of a difference, does it?" He put his hands in his pockets.

"Sorry," she said.

He looked at her. "It ain't your fault."

"Well," she began, "this is my place. Do you want to come up for some coffee or tea?"

Race's eyebrows shot up. He _really _wanted to go up. "Uh, no, I'd better not. I got an early mornin', y'know." He stiffened, nervous again. "Um, well, g'night."

"Good-night." She watched him start off toward his own home. "Oh, Race!" she called after him. He turned around. "Come see me some time, would you?"

He waved and walked off, thinking, she loves me. The woman can't get enough of me.

It wasn't until he had gotten into bed near one o'clock that he heard a voice above him.

"Didn't think I'd be seeing you till morning," Blink said. Race could see his arm hanging down from the bunk above him. "I'm guessing you got a little more than talking out of the lady, huh?"

"Shut up," he retorted, though he couldn't help but smile. After all, she _had _invited him up for coffee.


	2. Chapter 2

"Race."

"Lover-boy," someone cooed in his ear. "Oh, Racetrack."

"Medda," he murmured, still half asleep.

"Oh, Race!" Blink squealed in a girlish voice. He grabbed a pillow and planted it on Race's head.

Several boys standing around laughed as Race, who was finally awake, struggled to breathe. Disheveled, he threw the pillow at Blink.

"Morning!" Blink laughed, holding onto the pillow. "Have a nice sleep?" He watched Race search madly for something on the bedside table.

Race was exhausted. He had barely gotten two hours of sleep and the dark circles under his eyes were proof of that. He rubbed his eyes and with a swipe of his other hand, he succeeded in knocking everything off the table. "Cigar," he muttered feverishly. "All right. Who the hell took my cigar? I had _one _left and now it's gone. And Snipes, if I find out it's _you _again, you're gonna wish you was never born!"

"It weren't me!" Snipes said, waving his hands in surrender.

Race let out a frustrated groan and got up. He needed to get dressed and go. He walked sleepily to the sinks and washed his face.

"Jesus, Race, you look terrible."

"Thanks, Cowboy," Race said without looking up. He didn't need to—he knew it was Jack.

"Did someone soak ya?" Jack Kelly had fashioned this nickname "Cowboy," because he wanted to run away to Santa Fe and become one. He had been telling them this for years and so far, he hadn't gone anywhere.

"Very funny."

"Heard you had quite a night." Jack gave him a bemused look.

Race looked up. "Oh, didja? From who?"

Jack shook his head. "I ain't no snitch."

"It wouldn't be that little one-eyed twit, would it?" he questioned innocently.

Jack raised an eyebrow and said seriously, "What's it worth to you?"

Race threw down the bar of soap. "You kiddin' me? It ain't worth nothin'—I already know Blink told you!" He wiped his face with a towel, of which was already quite dirty.

"Race," Jack called before he left.

"Look." Race turned around. "I don't got time to talk about this now. Nothin' happened. We talked, she went home. That was it!" He disappeared down the stairs.

"Hey, Wease," he said a few minutes later. "Give me forty papes, huh?" When the stack of papers was handed to him, he said, "Thanks," and went on his way. As he walked, he looked through the paper. He read one of the headlines: "Will Earth stop spinning? Apocalypse on horizon." Race sniggered softly, turning the page. Another headline immediately caught his eye: "Medda Larkson—Great future on and off Vaudeville stage." He narrowed his eyes and read on, "Vaudeville star Medda Larkson finally told correspondents of her recent engagement to tycoon Roger Mitchell."

The cigar that had been in his mouth fell when he read the word _engagement_. He had come to a complete stop. People walked around him and some simply pushed him out of the way. Not knowing what else to do and ignoring his conscience's warnings, he went straight to her door.

Medda answered wearing a frilly robe over her nightdress. "Race!" She sounded surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Medda," he said sternly, "I don't mean no disrespect, but…are you getting married to this bonehead?" He held up a picture of Roger Mitchell from a front-page story.

She glanced around and pulled him inside, shutting the door. She looked different without makeup and her hair all done up. She came very close to his face and demanded, "Where did you hear about that?"

"Whaddya mean?" Race asked incredulously. "It's all over the papers!" He gave the page to her so she could see it. "Says right here that you told 'em."

She shuddered angrily. "That rat! That filthy bastard!"

Race was lost, but he ignored it and went on, "Look, Medda, I thought we could've had somethin' special. I mean, I really liked you—_like _you—, and you can't imagine the _hell _I went through from the other newsies—"

Medda slapped him then and Race, jaw dropped, stared up at her completely dumbstruck. Before he could say another word, her mouth had connected with him in a quick but passionate kiss.

Race broke it, panicking. "_Medda_, you can't just go and kiss ev'ry admirer you got! 'Cause y'know, we get these ideas in our heads…"

"Any idea of yours is all right with me," she replied, smiling flirtatiously.

Race swallowed, then said, his voice cracking, "So—_so_, who's this joker, huh? Sounds like he's giving you trouble."

Medda gave him a stern look. "Race, I don't want you getting involved. He has goon twice the size of scabs." Her hand wandered absently to her head, where she realized she had forgotten to do something. "Oh my god, the curlers are still in!" she gasped, horrified. "Excuse me!"

She started to walk off, red in the face, when Race said, "Hey, Medda, don't." She stared at him. "It looks nice. Y'know, I ain't used to seeing you like this."

Medda smiled. "You're not _supposed _to." She paused. "Um, do you want some coffee?"

"Sure." He set his papers down and followed her into the kitchen.

Once she had given him his cup of coffee, she sat down at the small table. "I'll grant you, we _were _lovers—_were_. And he _did _ask me to marry him. But I said I couldn't." She sighed. "That was about ten years ago…I think—before he became so wealthy. I didn't say 'no' because of that, either, it had nothing to do with the money. I mean, I was twenty years old—probably about your age," she added. "I wanted to make a name for myself, be _independent_, before I ever considered marriage." She took a sip of coffee and leaned back in her chair. "But apparently _Roger _saw it differently. All the money in the world couldn't change bad to good."

"So," Race began slowly, "you didn't agree to this engagement?"

"_What _engagement?" she asked angrily. "There _is _no engagement! Just a misguided, foolish man in a suit. I can't believe the _World _printed this story!" She sighed, and at his worried look, said, "I'll get out of this somehow."

Race finished his coffee. "Uh, Medda, why did you kiss me…before? I know when I get talkin', it's hard to shut me up—"

"Like now?" she teased.

He laughed nervously. "Sorry. So, uh…?"

"The kiss?" He nodded. "I did it because I like you. Besides, I had to make up for the slap in the face."

He was nearly out the door when he suddenly asked, "How 'bout dinner?"

"Sure."

"Tonight?"  
"All right. Six-thirty?"

He smiled. "Any time works for me. I don't got nothin' better to do." She laughed. "So, I'll meet you outside Irving Hall, then?"

"Sounds great," she said. "I'll see you then."

"G'bye, Medda." He headed off. Selling papers wasn't very difficult at all, not because he was in such a good mood, but because the headline was so hot. Standing outside the Sheepshead racetrack shouting about the coming of the apocalypse seemed to make people flock toward him. But he really wasn't thinking about the papers. He was thinking about Medda, about how he couldn't wait to see her. He even abstained from betting at the track just so he would have _more _than enough money to pay for dinner. His stomach was tied in knots over the whole thing. A grown woman had feelings for him, _real _ones. What could be better?


	3. Chapter 3

Medda pinched her cheeks to make them rosier. Ever since Race had told her about Roger's latest plot, she had been a little pale. She wasn't frightened of him, but she had seen what happened to those who were insolent. She rang the bell with one hand and held onto her shawl with the other. She wore blue, a change from her usual lavender. Race seemed to enjoy seeing new sides of her. She planned to talk with Roger, and then meet Race outside Irving Hall.

Finally the door opened. A tall man stood there in an expensive suit. His dark hair was thinning, but the toothy grin on his face seemed never ending. "Medda Larkson!" He kissed her cheeks. "Darling! Won't you come in?"

"I'd rather not," she said shortly. "I don't want to be here long. I just came to tell you that I read the article in the paper and I _will not _be marring you."

He looked confused, but she knew he was faking it. "Article? What article?"

"I've had enough of your games, Roger," she snarled.

"Listen, _Medda_," he said, roughly grabbing her arm. "You don't have a choice. I'm the man, I've got the money, not to mention your father's permission."

"My father is dead," she said, trying to pull her arm away.

"He wasn't ten years ago when we both expected you to say 'yes.'"

"Well, what about _my _rights?" she demanded.

"_Your _rights?" He laughed. "You don't have any—you're a woman."

He started pulling her inside and she pounded his hand with her fists. "What are you doing? Get your hands off me!"

The sound of the slamming door echoed in the long, dark corridor.


End file.
